Amalfi Coast Writing Retreat for Women: 7 Days to Rewrite Your Life’s Story with Stephanie Shephard

Amalfi, Italy

Packing for your retreat to beautiful Italy…

Craving a writing retreat that doesn’t just inspire you—but transforms you? This October, I’m inviting a small, handpicked group of writers to join me, Stephanie Shephard—award-nominated Black woman author, screenwriter, and coach—on Italy’s iconic Amalfi Coast.

Let me be real: Nothing hits quite like waking up to sunlight shimmering off the Mediterranean, espresso in hand, ready to dig into your story with a community of women who are ready to write and reclaim their voice.

Why the Amalfi Coast?

It’s more than the blue water and lemon groves. It’s the feeling you get walking ancient streets in the morning, the wild freedom of journaling under an olive tree, and the quiet sisterhood of sharing a meal—knowing every woman in the room is there to turn her pain, hope, and joy into art. Sign up now!

Amalfi Coast.

What You Get (And Why You Can’t Get This on Zoom)

• Daily Writing Workshops – We dive deep. Character, plot, voice, structure—plus space to write new work, revise, or finally finish that book.

• Personal Coaching with Me – I meet you where you are. Struggling with confidence? Stuck on your second act? Need a cheerleader? You’ll get it all.

• Culinary Experiences – This isn’t some basic hotel food. We’re talking farm-to-table Italian dinners, fresh pastries, local wine, and yes—espresso until your heart sings.

• Cultural Immersion – We explore tiny Amalfi villages, take in the coast by boat, and draw inspiration from real Italian life.

• Soulful Community – Women in every genre and background—if you need a safe, empowering space to tell your story, you belong here.

Who Should Come?

This retreat is for writers at every stage—if you’re burned out, blocked, ambitious, or just hungry for time and space to create. If you’ve felt unseen or unwelcome in other literary spaces, this retreat was made for you.

Looking for:

• Writing retreats in Italy 2025

• Women’s writing retreat Amalfi Coast

• Black women writers retreat Italy

• Creative writing workshops Mediterranean

• Best fall writing retreats Europe

• Writing retreats for women

You’ve found it. This is not a crowded conference or a copy-paste package. This is intimate, real, and rooted in legacy—my mission is to help you start or finish your story and leave Italy changed.

Details

When: October 13–20, 2025

Where: Amalfi Coast, Italy

How many spots? Fewer than 12, to guarantee everyone gets personal attention.

What’s included:

• 7 nights in a gorgeous Amalfi villa

• Daily breakfast and gourmet dinners

• All workshops and group coaching

• Guided writing time and feedback

• Excursions to local sights (optional, but unmissable)

• Wine, coffee, laughter, and support you’ll remember forever

Not included: Airfare (but I’ll help you plan), transportation to and from the airport, lunches, and souvenirs.

How to Apply

Visit stephanieshephard.com to read more and reserve your spot, on sale today!

Why Me? Why Now?

I built this retreat because I know what it’s like to need escape, healing, and a creative breakthrough. I’ve helped writers finish their first novels, revive abandoned dreams, and even land agents. You don’t have to be published. You just have to want to write.

You are worthy of your own story—and of seeing the Amalfi Coast from a place of possibility, not just as a tourist, but as an artist.

Spaces are limited—this is for the bold, the curious, the women who want more.

Ready to write your story where the sea meets the sky?

Apply today. I can’t wait to welcome you to Italy.

Have questions or would like to pay in installments? Fill out this form.

Scared to Leave the States? Here’s What You Should Do to Travel Safely (And Smart) as a Woman…

You’ve been dreaming of booking that flight, leaving the U.S., and living your soft life. But every time your finger hovers over “confirm,” you hear a voice in your head whisper: What if I get kidnapped by the Peaky Blinder boys and sold into a trafficking ring? But honestly, Cillian Murphy can kidnap me any time…any day…any hour.

I was scared, too—of human trafficking, racism, not fitting in, not speaking the language, and yes, being alone in a foreign country with no one to call. But I still went. And now? I’ve been to ten countries and lost 37 pounds while eating pasta and writing in medieval pubs. More importantly: I found myself.

Here’s exactly what I did (and what I now teach through my Travel Consultation & Companion services) to move through that fear and live.

What I Was Scared Of Before I Left the U.S.

-Getting kidnapped (thank you, Liam Neeson and Dateline)

-Human trafficking (thank you Instagram and TikTok)

-Not speaking the language

-Racism and standing out

-Not being able to afford it

These were real fears. Valid. Deep. But they weren’t stronger than my desire to get out.

What Helped Me Leave Anyway

1. Research like a CIA analyst

   • I looked up crime statistics on every city.

   • Followed American expats on YouTube and Instagram who tell the truth, not just the glamorized version.

2. Learn the local scams

   • Bird poop scam: someone “accidentally” splashes fake poo on you, helps you clean it, while their friend robs you.

   • Map scam: someone lays a map over your phone on a cafe table, then their partner snatches your phone.

3. Street smarts translate

   • Don’t go out late alone.

   • Don’t accept drinks from strangers.

   • Don’t leave your bag open or unattended.

   • Keep phone in your purse, not on the table.

   • Use zippered and locked bags/backpacks.

4. Stay alert—but not afraid

   • I stay aware of my surroundings.

   • I make sure I know where I’m staying and how to reach help.

   • I’ve never felt unsafe in Europe. In fact? I feel safer abroad than I ever did in the U.S.

That Paris Police Officer With the Rifle? Yeah...

While I was in Paris, I needed help and had to ask a police officer holding an actual assault rifle for directions. Not only was he kind, helpful, and calm—he was fine as hell. That French accent alone could’ve written me poetry.

I felt respected. Safe. Human.

The More You Travel, The Braver You Get

France was my game changer.

It wasn’t easy. I’d taken four years of French in high school and still struggled. The language barrier was real. The attitude was real. And yes, they do care if you don’t speak French.

But each country, each solo trip, each bus ride, and broken conversation gave me confidence. And that confidence is now something I carry with me everywhere.

Start Small. Start Smart.

If you’re scared to jump into Albania or Morocco headfirst, don’t. Start with a soft landing:

• A major U.S. city (Chicago, Seattle, New York)

• Then go to Canada

• Then London, Dublin, or Paris

Build your bravery in stages. You don’t have to be fearless. You just have to go anyway.

Don’t Want to Go Alone? Bring Me.

I created two offers for women who are scared to travel but know they need a change:

1. ✈️ Travel Consultation – $25 (on Sale!)

We’ll figure out:

• Where you should go

• Your budget

• What to pack

• What to expect

2. 👭🏾 Travel Companion & Scouting – Starting at $499

You get:

• Me coming with you (yes, really) but you have to go through a background check! Sis, I’m keeping us both safe

• Or me going ahead to scout your destination

• Real info about where to stay, how it feels, and if it’s right for you

Because no woman should miss out on the world because she was scared to go alone.

Leaving the States Gave Me My Life Back

I’m not just lighter physically. I’m lighter spiritually. I’m me in ways I haven’t been in years. When I sat in Italy, sun on my face, real Italian pizza in front of me, and peace in my chest, I said to myself:

"Thank God I left."

And you can, too.

Want Help Planning It? Book with Me I help women design their escape with strategy, safety, and support:

• Travel Consultations

• Travel Companion & Scout Services

Follow my real journey:

• TikTok: @stephanieshephard_author

• Instagram: @stephanieshephard_author

Want to see the Amalfi Coast with me? Sign up now: Ink & Honey: A Women’s Writing Retreat in Italy! October 13-20th.

Final Word:

You don’t have to be fearless. You don’t have to go alone. You just have to go.

Let me show you how.

More at www.stephanieshephard.com

The Top 8 Fantasy Novels Everyone Should Read (And Inspired Scarlet Vël)

I’ve been in love with fantasy since I was a Black girl in Alaska (military family) sneaking off to read under the covers. The genre gave me escape, power, and imagination before I had a passport—or a plan. It told me that other worlds were possible, even if mine felt like a trap.

And now? I’ve traveled across Europe, soaked in the magic of Ireland, written in ancient pubs and misty forests, and finally started writing the fantasy novel I always wanted to read. It’s called Scarlet Vël—and if you want in, sign up here.

Until then, these are eight fantasy novels that everyone should read and inspired Scarlet Vël.

The books recommended inspired me to write Scarlet Vël.

1. The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien

The blueprint. The mythmaker. The original world-builder. I don’t care what your genre is—if you write fantasy, you owe something to Tolkien. Middle-earth showed us how entire cultures, languages, races, and histories could exist within a book.

Reading Tolkien as a girl, and then again as a woman traveling through Ireland, made me feel like magic might just be one misty hill away. It’s slow. It’s deep. It’s legendary.

And Frodo? That little hobbit had no business surviving half of what he did—and yet he did. Just like us.

Please read the books! Not just watch the movies.

2. The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss

This book had me pacing my room. The lyrical prose. The music. The world-building. Kvothe is a complicated, flawed genius, and the world he lives in feels lived-in, broken, and beautiful.

As I walked the stone alleys of Oxford and Dublin, I imagined this world coming to life. Rothfuss taught me that your language can be the magic. Every sentence can cast a spell.

3. A Court of Thorns and Roses by Sarah J. Maas

Yes, it’s fantasy-romance. And yes, it’s dramatic and a little spicy. But let’s not act like this series didn’t bring a whole generation of women (including me) back into fantasy.

Feyre’s story reminded me that fantasy can be powerful and feminine. You can fall in love and still fight. You can save yourself and still want someone to hold you after the battle.

4. The Priory of the Orange Tree by Samantha Shannon

Big. Queer. Epic. Dragon-filled. And absolutely gorgeous.

Reading this book made me rethink scale. You don’t have to keep your fantasy tight and tidy. You can build continents. Legacies. Bloodlines that span centuries. If you do it well? Readers will follow you anywhere.

While walking the cliffs of the Amalfi Coast and journaling by the sea, this book echoed in my mind.

5. Children of Blood and Bone by Tomi Adeyemi

Finally. Nigerian-inspired fantasy. Magic. Oppression. Legacy. This book gave us what so many of us craved growing up: a world that looked like ours and still shimmered with power.

This one reminded me why I wanted to write Scarlet Vël. Because somewhere out there is a girl like me looking for herself in a world of swords and spells.

6. The House in the Cerulean Sea by TJ Klune

This is cozy fantasy done right. A story about magical children, found family, and quiet, transformative love. There are no epic battles or chosen ones—just a tired caseworker discovering that magic might be real, and so is compassion.

Reading this book while traveling made me pause and breathe. It reminded me that not all fantasy has to roar. Sometimes, it just needs to hold your hand.

7. Game of Thrones (A Song of Ice and Fire series) by George R.R. Martin

Messy. Political. Violent. Brilliant. Game of Thrones isn’t just fantasy—it’s high fantasy at its finest. Bloodlines. Betrayal. Dragons. Queens.

If you’re building a world where magic is dangerous, power is corrupting, and everyone thinks they’re the hero? This is your blueprint.

Reading Martin while roaming old castles in Scotland and Ireland made my imagination go wild. And Scarlet Vël owes more than a little to the queens of Westeros.

8. Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling

Say what you will, but this series raised a generation of fantasy lovers. It was one of my first introductions to the genre as a kid, and it taught me about chosen ones, magical schools, and the power of friendship (and a good wand).

I’d be lying if I said Hogwarts didn’t shape me. Now I’m writing my own magical world—but with more spice, more swords, and definitely more Black women.

Why Travel Made Me a Better Fantasy Writer

When I walked through Trinity College’s Long Room Library in Dublin, I almost cried. Okay, I’m lying because I did cry. The scrolls, the wood, the silence—it all whispered, your stories belong here too.

Fantasy isn’t just written. It’s lived. Through ruined castles in Scotland. Through foggy gardens in Oxford. Through myth-soaked cliffs in Ireland.

Traveling gave me the courage to write fantasy on my terms.

Scarlet Vël is Coming. Want In?

She’s fierce. She’s magical. She’s done playing small.

Scarlet Vël is the story I couldn’t find, so I wrote it. Want an exclusive preview and early access? Sign up here.

Need Help Writing Your Fantasy?

You don’t have to do it alone. Whether it’s a full-blown ghostwrite or a writing consultation to get your world off the ground, I’m here:

• Ghostwriting Services

• Writing Consultations

Write With Me in Italy

October 13–20, Amalfi Coast. Women only. Words only. Wine always.

Come write your fantasy novel with me in the most magical place I’ve ever been. Writing Retreat Info Here.

Final Word

Fantasy raised me. Travel transformed me. And now? I’m writing the stories I wish I’d found sooner.

You don’t need permission. You need a pen.

Follow me on IG and TikTok @stephanieshephard_author

Read more at www.stephanieshephard.com

How I Lost 37 Pounds in 4 Months Traveling Through Europe (And Writing My Book)

Let me go ahead and say it plain: I lost 37 pounds in 4 months while eating pasta, walking cobblestones, drinking water like it was holy, and not working out.

No gym. No diet. No calorie tracking. Just walking, writing, and living.

As a 46-year-old Black woman in full menopause who gained weight on hormones back in the States, I had no idea that leaving America would be the biggest weight loss plan of my life. Europe didn’t just help me write my book—it gave me back my body.

From 212 to 175 Without Diet Culture

Let’s be clear: I didn’t do keto, Whole30, WW, or any of that.

I started at 212 pounds (I hit menopause and went from 150 to 212 overnight, I kid you the fuck not). Now, in my fifth month of exploring Europe I am at 175 pounds. I tracked it with one thing: the scale. No food journal. No apps. Just my body telling me, something's changing.

I didn’t try to lose weight. I just started walking. Living. Breathing different air. Within one month of leaving the States I was down 10 pounds — stubborn pounds that I thought I’d never be able to lose.

What I Ate: Local Food, Real Food, Whole Food

You know what happens when you stop seeing billboards for fast food, 24/7 commercials, and drive-thrus on every corner? You stop craving junk.

I ate what locals ate:

* In Italy, pasta, pizza, and desserts that didn’t feel heavy and laden with chemicals.

* In France, croissants and quiche that didn’t spike my blood sugar.

* In Scotland and Ireland, full meals that felt like real nourishment. Potatoes, more potatoes, and how about haggis on the side?

I only ate fast food once in 5 months—McDonald’s in Bari, Italy. And baby, I was not impressed. Thick bread, dry burger, and none of the fake joy American fries give you.

When the environment shifts, so does your appetite. Junk food just disappeared from my mind.

Walking behind other walkers in Reading, England.

Walking Was the Workout

I didn’t hit the gym once. Not once. What I did do?

* Walked 15,000 to 20,000 steps a day.

* Took buses, climbed stairs, explored medieval cities. Train depots in Europe are no freaking joke. They don’t care about no one—1000 stairs, yup.

* In Prague, I hit 20,000 steps in a day just vibing with the architecture.

* In Edinburgh, walking 15,000–18,000 steps daily felt normal. All around, you are surrounded by walkers, elderly and young, just walking it away. Young, fit. In Edinburgh little elderly women would power walk right past me—Grandma Nana, I see you!

I didn’t plan workouts—I planned explorations.

No car = no sitting in traffic. No Chick-fil-A runs. Don’t even miss it. In fact, I get slightly nauseated even thinking about it. Just moving from sunrise to sunset, and sometimes beyond.

Menopause Made Me Heavy. Europe Let Me Exhale.

In the States, I was on hormones. Nothing happened. I stayed bloated, tired, heavy. Out here? I got off hormones. Stopped obsessing. Started living. And the weight started melting off.

Europe gave me the soft life my hormones were gatekeeping. No pills. No patches. No creams. No plans. Just food that was less processed, movement that was natural, and the freedom to feel alive.

The Writing Life Helped Me Slow Down

I traveled to write, not to lose weight. But the writing helped. I wasn’t mindlessly eating in front of Netflix. I was sitting in medieval pubs, notebook open, writing while sipping water or wine, and just...being.

I gave myself permission to experience the moment. To write notes, draft chapters, observe people. It all made me eat slower. Breathe deeper. Stop rushing. That matters more than any app or gym membership.

No Diet, No Gym. Just Italy, Inspiration, and a Little Sweat.

This weight loss wasn’t expensive either. Local food is affordable in most European cities. Walking is free. And drinking water? Girl, get a bottle.

I didn’t do anything extreme. I just left America.

Stock Images.

You Can Do This Too

If you’re a woman in your 40s+, deep in menopause, looking around your life wondering, “Is this it?”

Let me say this clearly: “You are not stuck.”

There is a life waiting for you with better food, easier movement, fewer commercials, and yes—hot Italian men who will make you blush while holding open a door. (Ask me how I know.)

You don’t have to move tomorrow. But you can plan.

Want Help Planning It?

I help women just like you escape the grind and start writing their next chapter. Whether you need a new story or a new setting, I’m here for it:

* Travel Consultation Services

*Ghostwriting & Writing Coaching

And if you want to see it in real time, follow me on:

* https://www.instagram.com/stephanieshephard_author

* https://www.tiktok.com/@stephanieshephard_author

Final Word:

I didn’t lose weight to impress anybody.

I didn’t leave America for abs.

I just stopped living for survival and started living for joy. And joy, as it turns out, looks *damn* good on me.

It might look good on you too.

Want to eat Italian food, dance under the moon, and write? Or just dance and eat? Well, join me for an exciting Women’s Writing Retreat in Italy from October 13-20th!

Also, check out my romance book, A Sweet Love Like Ours, just $1.89!

More at www.stephanieshephard.com

The 10 Best Cities Abroad for Writing Inspiration (and Actually Finishing Your Book)

You don’t need a fancy MFA program or a billion-dollar book advance to write your novel—you just need the right city, the right view, and maybe a little coffee (or wine). As a 46-year-old Black woman, published author, writing consultant, and ghostwriter living abroad, I’ve slow-traveled through cities that either made me want to write—or made me want to throw my laptop into the sea.

So here it is: 10 cities abroad that helped me tap into my creativity, get writing done, or dream up entire worlds. You might not become the next Toni Morrison or Tolkien (though...why not?), but you’ll at least get that chapter finished.

1. Oxford, England Let’s start with the obvious. Oxford is a literary powerhouse. It’s busy. It’s crowded. But you’re walking the same cobbled streets as Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, and some of the most legendary writers in history. I wanted to visit the Eagle and Child Pub where they met (unfortunately it was closed).

Grab a table at a cafe near Radcliffe Camera, sip your overpriced tea, and soak in the atmosphere. I spent an afternoon just people-watching and pretending I was rewriting the last season of Game of Thrones—with a better ending.

Why it works: Gothic architecture, old libraries, and so much history you can taste it.

2. London, England London is big, bold, and full of distractions—and that’s exactly why it’s brilliant for writing. Head to a medieval pub, order a pint, and let your imagination run wild. This is the city of Dickens, Woolf, and yes, the Tudors.

If you’re writing anything about European royalty, war, or betrayal? Baby, the War of the Roses practically wrote Game of Thrones before George R.R. Martin lifted a pen.

Why it works: Rich architecture, centuries of layered stories, and a café or pub on every corner.

3. Dublin, Ireland Oh, Dublin. My beloved Dublin. It is my creative spirit animal. Walk into Trinity College and see the Long Room Library. Gaze at the Book of Kells. And then sit in a cafe and just...write.

There’s something about Ireland—the mist, the warmth of the people, the green. It’s not called the Emerald Isle for nothing. I swear I saw fairies dancing between raindrops. (Is that a song? It should be.)

Why it works: Literary legacy, breathtaking libraries, friendly locals, and cheaper than the UK.

When I’m telling you I love Dublin. I love Dublin. Trust me…just go…

4. Edinburgh, Scotland Let’s go dramatic. You’re in a city crowned by a literal castle. Sit down in Princes Street Gardens like the creative peasant you are, open your notebook, and write under the shadow of stone battlements.

You want inspiration for fantasy? Historical drama? Something moody and windswept? Edinburgh will feed you.

Why it works: Castles, medieval buildings, gardens, moody skies, and literary street cred for days. Go to the Writer’s Museum where they house Robert Louis Stevenson, Sir Walter Scott, and Robert Burns personal artifacts.

5. Paris, France Yes, she’s overhyped. Yes, she’s expensive (but cheaper than London). But Paris is still that girl.

There’s a certain magic to writing in a Parisian cafe. I actually wrote in Paris. The clinking glasses, the sounds of life happening in French—it hits differently. You sit at a tiny table, pretend you’re penning your next indie bestseller, while your ghostwriter (hi, that’s me) sweats in the background actually writing the thing.

Why it works: Cafe culture, beauty, and the illusion of literary chic (that sometimes becomes real).

6. Galway, Ireland A small city that feels like a poem. It has that misty, coastal vibe that makes you want to write about heartbreak or mermaids—or both. Galway gave me peace. And sometimes peace is where the words live.

Why it works: Slow pace, coastal charm, and lyrical atmosphere.

7. Bologna, Italy It’s not Rome. It’s not Milan. And that’s the point.

Bologna has food, color, and an old university-town vibe. Sit under red porticos with a notebook and a glass of wine, and suddenly you’re in your author era. It’s a quieter kind of romantic.

Why it works: University energy, great food, fewer crowds, and way more flavor.

8. Porto, Portugal Forget Lisbon. Porto is where the writers go when they want wine, waves, and wistfulness. I didn’t even realize how inspired I was until I started journaling nonstop.

Why it works: Ocean views, dramatic light, and a more grounded vibe than other cities.

9. Prague, Czech Republic Prague looks like a fairytale and writes like a thriller. The spires, the fog, the bridges. You walk here and feel like your main character is following you with a secret. I loved Prague. I also walked 20,000 steps in one day and my feet are still feeling the pain! Visit the clock, the square, the bridge…endless ideas for your book.

Why it works: Gothic architecture (inspiration for Frankenstein), mystery, and inspiration on every crooked street.

10. Amalfi Coast, Italy I’m saving the best for last. Because not only is the Amalfi Coast stupid beautiful, but I’m hosting a women’s writing retreat here this October.

October 13–20. Seven days of writing, eating, bonding, and finishing the damn book. So if you’re serious about writing, come write with me. Details here: Ink & Honey: A Writing Retreat for Women.

Why it works: Sea views, sunshine, sisterhood, and a scheduled space to actually write.

Need Help With Your Book? If you’d rather sip wine in Paris and have someone else do the writing, I got you. I’m a full-time Ghostwriter and Writing Consultant. We can get your book, brand, or story told—with clarity and style.

Final Word: The right city won’t write the book for you—but it can make the process feel magical, possible, and yours.

Writers don’t just need quiet. We need wonder. We need good lighting and better lattes. We need history, heartbreak, and castles.

Find your city. Then write your story.

Connect on Instagram and TikTok for more pictures of my travels: stephanieshephard_author

Read more at www.stephanieshephard.com

The Dark Side of Italy as a Black Woman — Read this before booking your trip!

So you’re a Black woman planning a dreamy trip to Italy? I’m gonna stop you right there. Not to kill the vibe, Sis—but to level it up. Because while IG shows you pasta, gondolas, and linen outfits with zero sweat stains, I’m here to give you the real-deal, first-hand experience: solo, Black, mid-40s, and traveling through Italy with a suitcase full of curls and curiosity.

Spoiler: You’re going to fall in love with Italy. But you need to know a few things first. Because this trip changed my life—and it's now the location of my upcoming writing retreat for women on the Amalfi Coast, October 13–20. Yes, it's that good.

How I Got to Italy (and Why It Wasn’t Rome)

I didn’t plan on Italy at first. I was trying to get the hell out of Albania—but that’s another blog, and whew chile. I wanted something romantic. Something soft. And I’d always wanted to take a ferry, so I sailed from Durrës, Albania to Bari, Italy.

Without giving too much away about Albania, as soon I crossed the line and got herded onto the ferry ran by an Italian crew, I already noticed a difference. The men (the ferry was staffed with all men and just one woman) were helpful and sexy as hell! Every…single…one…of…them. And even the passengers (mostly big rig truckers) were helpful and kind. One trucker lugged my heavy suitcase (I’ve since gotten rid of it) up and down the stairs of the ferry.

And even though we got caught in a storm at sea (Jesus took the wheel 'because I knew we were gonna die!) I would do it all over again for the thrill and again…the men.

But any who, I digress…

Most people go straight for Rome or Venice or Milan. Not me. I wanted something different. Bari sounded mysterious, and when you’re trying to escape chaos, new mystery feels like a blessing.

From Bari, I slow-traveled to Verona by train—yes, the Netflix kind of vibe. Love in the Villa had me in my feelings and I wanted to see what the soft life really looked like in Italy.

Where I Stayed

Bari - I stayed at MammaDada Charm Rooms - (https://www.booking.com/hotel/it/mammadada-charm-rooms.en-gb.html) (yes, I booked on Booking.com even though I prefer Airbnb—but this one was a gem). Clean, charming, walkable.

Verona - I stayed at Hotel Scalzi (https://www.hotelscalzi.it/en) — an adults-only, minimalist hotel that gave quiet, romantic vibes. No elevator though, so keep that in mind if you’re hauling a lot of luggage.

Both cities were incredibly affordable. And no, Italy did not break my bank. Transportation, food, hotels? All shockingly within budget. Especially food. Eat local. Find the corner spots. You’ll thank me.

As a Black Woman in Italy? I Felt Seen. And Safe.

Let me be clear: I’ve traveled to places where I felt watched. Fetishized. Invisible. Italy was not one of them.

In Bari and Verona, I felt welcomed. The women were friendly, smiling, warm, and kind. The men? CHILE. They helped me with luggage on the trains, in stations, and on sidewalks—without me asking. Always respectful. Always kind. Flirty, yes. But never invasive.

I didn’t feel othered. Didn’t feel stared at. Didn’t feel like a walking curiosity. And in a world that often doesn’t give Black women softness? That meant everything.

Let’s Talk Food: A Holy Experience

Italy reminded me that my tongue was made for joy.

Every bite? Divine. From thick slices of local pizza to desserts I still dream about. I don’t even like McDonald’s, but I tried it out of curiosity. The bread was thick, the burger dry, and that was enough of that.

But the local eats? Whew. And I had zero stomach issues, even with all that dairy, cheese, and pasta. My digestive tract said, “Yes, chef.”

Language Barriers? Not a Problem.

Most places translated to Italian, French, and English. People wanted to communicate. They tried. Some spoke perfect English. Some used gestures and smiles. I always felt understood.

Pro tip: Download Google Translate and use the camera feature for menus and signs. But honestly? You’ll be fine. We have the same words in the States so reading menus was a peace of cake…mmm…Italian cake…

Travel Tips from a Black Woman Who’s Been There

Take the train - Use Trainline (https://www.thetrainline.com/) for cheap tickets and stunning views.

Pack your hair care - Italy doesn’t carry our products in local stores (especially smaller cities), so bring your go-to leave-ins, oils, and satin wrap.

Skin felt great - had no issues with water or climate, unlike London and the surrounding area (which gave me sour body smell due to their hard water 😬). Italy felt luxurious and light.

Photograph everything - The coast, the cafes, the trains, the wine. These cities are cinematic.

Stay in small cities but with modern amenities - Big cities are fun but overhyped. Bari and Verona gave me intimacy, safety, and real connection.

And Now? I'm Going Back. With You.

Italy left such a mark on me that I’m launching a **women’s writing retreat on the Amalfi Coast** this October (13–20). If you’re a woman looking to write your story, rest, and see Italy with intention, come with me.

The retreat includes workshops, food, luxury, and sisterhood. Link here: Ink & Honey: A Writing Retreat in Italy.

Would I Recommend Italy to Black Women?

Absolutely. Especially if you go off-season. Less tourists. Connect with the locals. Italy gave me kindness, respect, flavor, and fire photo ops. I felt safe. I felt seen. I felt free. And that’s not something I say lightly.

So yes, book that flight. But don’t just go to Italy. Feel it. Eat with abandon. Walk slow. Say yes. Write. Rest. And maybe come with me this fall to the Amalfi Coast and do it in community.

So, is there a dark side to Italy? Yes, only if you never see it, never experience it, and never fully immerse yourself in the culture, the people, and the food!

And if you’re scared about going by yourself I’m also a travel companion! 1-on-1 consultations now for just $25!

Find me on Instagram and Tik Tok for more: stephanieshephard_author

www.stephanieshephard.com

Should Black Women Travel to Albania? What They Don’t Tell You…

If you're a Black woman planning a trip to Albania based on those dreamy YouTube videos—stop. Just stop. I need to talk to you.

Because what they don’t tell you in the vlogs—you know, the ones with dreamy drone shots, fresh seafood, and vague claims about how "affordable and amazing" Albania is—is that sometimes, it's a straight-up disaster for solo Black women travelers. And trust me, I found out the hard way.

This is not a hate piece. This is your travel survival guide. A real one.

Durrës, Albania - my seaside view from my balcony.

Why I Went to Albania

Like many of y'all, I fell for the YouTube hype. Black women influencers were out here talking about the food, the peace, the affordability, the beauty. I needed an escape, and they made Albania sound like the next Bali.

So I packed my bags, booked a place, and headed to Durrës, Albania with plans to stay for 30 days.

I lasted five.

Where I Stayed and What I Got Instead

I booked an apartment in Durrës through Booking.com. It looked decent online. Reality?

• No heat. And I was there in winter.

• No amenities.

• No deliveries unless you paid in cash — and sometimes it had to be Lek, other times Euro.

• Most businesses didn’t take cards.

• Everyone smoked. Inside restaurants. Inside ferry terminals. Inside their lungs, inside my peace.

You ever try eating seafood while inhaling Marlboro Reds? I don’t recommend it.

The Real Albania: Not What They Promised

Here’s what I thought I was going to get: clean beaches, culture, connection.

What I got:

• Crumbling buildings and debris

• Wild dogs (yes, multiple packs)

• Dog poop — even on the beaches

• Panhandlers who tried to take food out of my hand

• Aggressive men who would walk up and start talking to me in rapid Albanian like I was supposed to respond

It was depressing. It was chaotic. And it felt hostile. Not openly, but that quiet kind of "you don't belong here" energy that sticks to your skin.

I started wearing a mask and hat not for COVID—but to blend in. Because I stood out. And the stares? They weren’t curious. They weren’t flirty. They were unsettling.

Safety Check: Absolutely Not.

At one point, I thought, Okay, I can push through. Just get to the next city. Maybe Tirana will be better.

But then I encountered a pack of wild dogs in what was supposedly a tourist zone. I had a moment—standing in front of a crumbling building, cigarette smoke in the air, and no one to call if something happened—and I thought: I gotta go.

Let’s Talk Money: It’s Cheap But Not Worth It

Yes, Albania is affordable. Meals were cheap. Housing? Also cheap. But getting Euros, converting money? Fees on fees on fees.

Plus, you’re paying for frustration. Paying to not know which currency is accepted. Paying in time and safety. And when that apartment turned out to be a scam? I was done.

Internet was fine, to be fair. Food ranged from okay to good. Beach was fine from a distance. But nothing makes up for feeling disrespected and unsafe.

Durrës at night. I got accosted by panhandlers a few minutes later.

Why the Hype?

Honestly? I think folks get swept up in affordability and the thrill of discovering the "next place." Plus, you can stay in Albania for twelve months on your US passport. People use it to establish a home and then fly out from there and travel through Europe and Asia. But to me? Not worth it. But those YouTube vlogs? They're curated. They're not lies exactly—but they leave out everything that matters for Black women.

Things like:

• Feeling safe

• Feeling seen but not targeted

• Basic infrastructure

• Clear communication (linguistically and culturally)

• Kindness

• Modern amenities (listen if you want the farm life, you go ahead, but I need deliveries and credit card services)

• Reliable public transportation

• Medical care (hard to come by — another thing they don’t tell you)

I had none of that in Albania.

The country had poor infrastructure and all I saw were men—on the corner, smoking. I’m like, “Don’t y’all fools see your country needs you to help build it up!” And listen, I ain’t building up another country. Me and my slave ancestors did that in the States. We done—done. I want to land my plush behind in a country that gives softness, beauty, and erases the struggle, not add to it.

So I Left. By Ferry. To Italy.

I caught a ferry from Durrës to Bari, Italy. And the difference? Night and damn day.

Italy welcomed me like an old friend. Women were warm and friendly. Gentlemen helped with luggage. People smiled. The food sang. And I felt human again. If you're looking for an affordable, beautiful destination? Italy > Albania. Hands down.

You can read about my full Italy experience here: Black Women, Read This Before Booking That Trip to Italy!

I loved Italy so much I am hosting a Writing Retreat! Book here!

Final Word: Should Black Women Travel to Albania?

No. Not solo. Not right now.

If you're desperate to go, go with a group, go with a plan, go with real expectations. Albania might work for some folks, but if you’re a solo Black woman looking for peace, softness, and safety? Sis, this ain’t it. The soft life should make my life softer not harder.

I would feel bad but then I went to my old friend Reddit because I thought it was just me. It wasn’t. People from Albania were warning people not to go to Albania. Check for yourself.

Let folks keep hyping it. I’m going to keep telling the truth. If you are a woman looking for the soft life there’s other countries.

Want help planning a trip that won’t have you dodging wild dogs and second-hand smoke? Need a Travel Companion or Travel Scout? Book a Travel Consultation. I’ll help you get it right the first time. I will tell you the truth. No affiliate links. No Instagram and YouTube lies for ad revenue money.

Stay smart. Stay safe. Stay sovereign.

Read more at www.stephanieshephard.com

In Defense of the Em Dash — That Sexy, Suspicious Line

Ah, the em dash — that long, slender punctuation mark that sends internet grammar warriors into full-on witch hunt mode. Lately, it’s been crowned the ultimate AI tell. Apparently, if your sentence has one — bam — you must be a robot, or worse, a writer who paid for ChatGPT and now thinks she’s Virginia Woolf reincarnated.

Well, guess what? I’m not AI (yet), and neither was Octavia Butler — and she used em dashes like seasoning in Wild Seed. Spicy, precise, and sometimes just there to punch a line into shape. So can we all calm down, pull up a cup of something strong, and talk about this over-maligned punctuation?

The Em Dash: A Brief, Human History

Long before algorithms were churning out think pieces and fanfic, the em dash was chillin’ in the world of typesetting. It’s called “em” because it’s the width of the capital letter “M” — because 18th-century printers loved drama and geometry. And since its debut, writers have loved it for the same reason they love coffee and literary feuds: it gives structure, pause, tension — all in one sleek little line.

Emily Dickinson loved her em dashes so much, her poetry practically vibrates with them. She wasn’t AI. She was just introverted and way ahead of her time — like if your favorite soft-spoken goth girl was also revolutionizing American poetry in secret. Nobody accused her of being a robot.

Why the Internet Hates It

Somehow in 2024, the em dash got put on trial. The evidence? AI tools like to use it. And yes, AI does tend to overuse the em dash — just like it overuses inspirational quotes, the word “journey,” and sentences that go “in a world where…” And let’s not even talk about Reddit users…I’m on there, I’m fighting them, too.

But here’s a wild idea: maybe it’s not the em dash that’s robotic. Maybe some folks just haven’t read enough actual books lately. Because if they did, they’d see Toni Morrison used it. So did James Baldwin. Maya Angelou? Yup. George Orwell? Absolutely. You know who didn’t use it? People who wrote manuals for microwave ovens — and those definitely weren’t AI.

What the Em Dash Actually Does

The em dash is the Beyoncé of punctuation. It’s better than Kendrick Lamar dissing Drake. It’s Taylor Swift — married (why do I want to see her boo’d up forever with Travis Kelce?) and dropping her Wedding Album and wedding album. It breaks up the beat, commands attention, and when used well, makes everything feel a little more dramatic, a little more alive. It can:

• Interrupt a sentence — like so.

• Replace a colon — for extra flair.

• Add a little surprise, like a twist ending — or a passive-aggressive comment.

It’s not lazy. It’s not robotic. It’s just… versatile. And yes, sometimes it’s misused. Just like the semicolon. Or quotation marks around random words to be “funny.” (shudder)

Final Word — Use It and Keep It Moving

Look, the em dash isn’t a smoking gun for AI-generated content. It’s a tool. A beautifully misunderstood tool that makes language more fluid, more expressive — more human. If we start banning things just because a robot uses them, what’s next? Ban breathing? Winking? Sourdough?

Octavia Butler used it. You can too. With confidence. With power. And with exactly zero need to explain yourself to the Internet Grammar Police.

So dash on, my darling — dash on.

What I Left Behind

What I Left Behind

I left everything behind, honestly.

This blog isn’t some cute “look at me living my best life” blog. This blog is the raw, unfiltered truth of my life—no matter how painful, how messy, how wonderful, or how damn distasteful it gets. I’ve hidden behind poetic language and flowery characters for years. And yes, they’re beautiful. I love them. But they’ve also been a shield. A way to tell my truth without showing my face.

You can read anything I write and see exactly who I am—if you’re paying attention. But a blog? A blog demands something different. It demands me—unmasked, unapologetic, fully present.

At first, I wanted AI to generate 50 blog posts, slap them on my site, and be done with it. But that’s not who I want to be anymore. That’s not who I am anymore.

I used to care so damn much what people thought—friends, lovers, family. I was scared of what they’d say if I stood in the fullness of my truth. But judgment? Judgment’s a two-way street. And it’s the stories we tell ourselves that end up imprisoning us. Stories like, You can’t leave, You’re too old to change, That dream is for someone else.

Nah. I’m not living in that prison anymore.

I left the United States—Atlanta, Georgia, to be exact—because I never felt like I belonged. Even as a child, I always felt… other. Different. While other kids played, my nose was buried in books. I read everything. By four years old, I was devouring stories. In kindergarten, teachers were already praising my writing. I’d preen with pride, already knowing—even at five or six—that I was meant for something bigger.

Books were my escape. They were my compass. Tolkien, Angelou, Poe, Wordsworth… they cracked the world open for me. At seven years old, I knew—knew—I wanted to be a writer.

Then life happened.

I stopped believing in myself. I swapped out dreams for practicality. Thought maybe I’d become a lawyer or a police officer. Maybe working for the government or climbing the corporate ladder would be enough.

It wasn’t.

In college, I wanted desperately to do a study abroad program. But fear held me back. I didn’t go. I didn’t leap.

Not until I was in my early 30s did I finally leave the country—Canada, then Mexico, the Bahamas. But it was that first trip to London, England… that was the moment I felt like I was finally home.

It was eerie how much I knew the place. I walked those streets like I’d lived there in another life. I didn’t need directions. I barely needed maps. I knew the rhythm, the Tube, the flow of the people. And I knew—I knew—I was meant to be there.

But life said “not yet.” Or maybe, I did.

I was a single mom of one working in a job I hated, in a system I didn’t believe in. And I was engaged to a man who, through his job, had the chance to move us abroad… to London. My dream. My city.

And he said no.

Even when I begged, he said no. That broke something in me—but it also planted something deeper. I promised myself that one day, I would live in London. Not because of a man. Not because of a job. But because of me. Because I chose it.

And now?

I did it. I made it.

Not just to London, but to a life I love. A life where I’ve seen countries I only dreamed about. A life where I write, travel, breathe deeply, and live freely. A life that’s still messy. Still imperfect. But one that feels like mine.

Every day, I wake up and choose joy. And that? That makes all the waiting, the pain, the loss, the struggle… worth it.

5 Love Stories That Should’ve Had Cake (And Yours Still Can)

1. Noah & Allie (The Notebook) - If they’d eaten Gloria’s red velvet cake, they’d have remembered everything. I’m just sayin’.

2. Ross & Rachel (Friends) - Cake would’ve stopped the “we were on a break!” nonsense.

3. Olivia Pope & Fitz (Scandal) - She needed a damn cupcake. He needed therapy.

4. Romeo & Juliet (Shakespeare) - Should’ve eaten red velvet cake. They would have lived long and healthy lives. Did they have cocoa powder back then?

5. Beyoncé & Lemonade - Already iconic. But imagine if she just sat down and had a slice of lemon cream cheese pound cake? Boy, bye! Take your Becky with the good hair. I got cake.

Fix your story. Read A Sweet Love Like Ours. Bake the Red Velvet and Lemon Cream Cheese Pound cake recipes included. Get the happy ending.

5 Best Cakes to Win Someone’s Heart (or Get Over Someone)

You ever taste something so good it made you forget your ex’s name? Welcome to Gloria’s kitchen, baby.

1. Red Velvet with Cream Cheese Frosting - Not the grocery store version. I’m talking about the recipe that made a grown man cry, leave his wife, and drive 4 hours just for another slice. It’s silk sheets and whispered apologies. It’s an edible love letter.

2. Lemon Cream Cheese Pound Cake - This cake will literally change the weather. It’s sunshine. It’s forgiveness. It’s your mama’s hug and that summer you fell in love with someone who read your poetry out loud. They hated it. You broke up. Got back together. They still hated it.

3. Tres Leches - IYKYK. Moist. Sweet. Soft. This cake is what Barry White sounds like.

4. Carrot Cake with Toasted Pecans - It’s not for the faint of heart. This is the cake of grown folks with deep feelings and family secrets.

5. Chocolate Lava Cake Dessert or declaration of lust? You decide. Either way, somebody’s clothes coming off.

Get the cake that starts relationships and heals old wounds. Download my book A Sweet Love Like Ours and get both cake recipes as a bonus.

www.stephanieshephard.com/store

Top 5 Worst Cakes to Make if You’re Trying to Stay Married

Look, some cakes were born to test your patience, your oven, and your relationship. I'm telling you now, if your boo breaks up with you over a dry sponge or undercooked center, you can't say I didn’t warn you. Here’s the list.

1. The 27-Step Croquembouche - A tower of cream puffs glued together with boiling sugar? Sis, unless your name is Martha Stewart and your soul is Teflon, skip it. Divorce rates spike every time someone says “just one more layer.”

2. The 6-Layer Rainbow Cake with Ganache Between Each One - No one needs that much color. Or stress. It’s like asking your relationship to survive Pride, a gender reveal, and a midlife crisis all at once.

3. Black Forest Cake (the German one, not the Pinterest lie) - Cherries, chocolate, whipped cream... and a guaranteed mess on your floor, your counters, your soul. Unless you like fighting over how long to soak the damn sponge in Kirsch.

4. Anything Requiring a Blowtorch - You’re not on Top Chef. Your man is not Gordon Ramsay. You’re gonna scorch the meringue, then each other. Let it go.

5. Vegan Gluten-Free Avocado Chocolate Cake - No. Just...no. If you’re gonna sin, sin correctly. The only thing this cake will satisfy is your therapist’s wallet.

Skip the drama. Download A Sweet Love Like Ours — you get a Red Velvet and Lemon Cream Cheese Pound cake recipe guaranteed to get you boo’d up by Tuesday.

How Cake & Cinema Collapsed Time: My $10,000 Offer

By Stephanie Shephard

Let me tell you a story. Not the kind you skim. The kind that finds you at 2:14AM when your soul is tired, your spirit is threadbare, and all you want is a sign that something beautiful still exists in the world.

I am a woman who writes stories that taste like memory and smell like something your grandmother whispered over a warm stove. I screenplays and books: romance, thrillers, comedies—but they’re all wrapped in the same magic: truth. The kind you don’t find in textbooks or TikToks. The kind that rearranges you.

A Sweet Love Like Ours is a romantic comedy, a novella but with the mindset this can be easily adapted for streaming services: Lifetime, Hallmark, Netflix, or Hulu. But it’s also a slice of my mother’s red velvet and lemon cream cheese pound cake and a truth I had to write myself free from. It’s $1.89 right now. Because I want you to taste it. I want you to read and say, "Oh my god, I know her." Or even better, "She knows me."

But that’s not all I offer.

I write screenplays. Cinematic, complex, and deeply human. Netflix-ready. Studio-worthy. And if you want one? That’ll be $10,000. Because I know my worth now.

If you’re a producer, exec, director, agent—this is your sign. Not just to hire me, but to remember why you fell in love with story in the first place. Not because it’s content. But because it cracked you open.

This website is a portal. A spell. A time machine. You came here for cake. You’ll leave with fire in your chest.

Join the list. Be first to know when the next book drops. Be first to claim one of three ghostwriting slots. Be first to read the next chapter before anyone else.

Because here, every bite and every page is sacred.

The Stillness Between the Rain: Writing

Ireland was my first big solo trip. Not just a vacation, not a weekend girl’s trip, not some half-baked getaway. No. This was me, a Black woman from America, stepping onto new soil, alone, to see the vastness of the world with nothing but faith, a carry-on, and a dream. It was December 31st, 2024, and I had officially become what I used to whisper about when I was too scared to dream too big: a solo traveler. A woman walking into the world.

I started in Ireland.

There’s something about the way Ireland breathes. It’s not just misty hills and sheep-dotted pastures. It’s not just the stone castles or winding roads carved like veins into the land. It’s the stillness. The hush that falls between the raindrops, the green that whispers to you in tones older than language. Ireland isn’t just a place you see. It’s a place you feel. And what it whispered to me was: Remember.

Ireland made me remember.

It made me remember my childhood. The daydreams I used to escape into. The way I would huddle in the back corner of the library at age seven, clutching fantasy novels bigger than my head. The librarian’s old cat stretched lazily on the windowsill, watching me with bored indifference as I traveled through stories that lit my imagination on fire. That quiet, magical solitude of discovery. I felt that again in Ireland.

Ireland made me remember who I was before the world told me who I was supposed to be. Before the anxiety, before the fear, before the weight of expectations. Before the jobs and the bills and the relationships that wore me down. Ireland reintroduced me to the girl who believed in magic. Who believed in her own voice. And once I met her again, I knew I wasn’t going to lose her.

Every stone, every raindrop, every whisper of wind told me what I had forgotten: You are a writer. Not just someone who writes, not someone who hopes to write someday—but a writer, born and bred. A writer of fantasy, of romance, of suspense. A writer of screenplays, of novels, of short stories that crack hearts open and pour in light. A writer who weaves entire universes from sentences. I had known this once, in a quiet way. But Ireland made me shout it from the mountaintops.

I didn’t go to Ireland just to travel. I went to remember.

I went to remember how fiction saved me. How it held me in moments when no one else did. I went to feel again what it was like to be transported by a story, to live inside a world so fantastical it could only exist between pages. I went to find that still, sacred place where the writer in me lives—and I found it, nestled between the emerald hills and the steady patter of Irish rain.

When I listened to Irish history told from Irish mouths—stories of resistance, survival, and soul—I felt something stir. The rhythm of those voices, the weight of those stories, the bloodlines woven back centuries into that very land... it cracked something open in me. It made space. Not just for my own voice, but for the voices of my characters, for the worlds I had yet to write, for the futures I hadn’t yet dared to imagine.

Ireland reminded me that stories are sacred.

That creating them is an act of defiance. Of beauty. Of hope.

So I walked through ancient streets and along mossy cliffs with a pen in one hand and a thousand ideas in the other. I wrote between the raindrops. I dreamed between my steps. I breathed in that thick Irish air like it was medicine and let it do what it came to do: heal me.

Because Ireland wasn’t just my first stop. It was the beginning of a new life. A life where writing isn’t a wish—it’s the way I move through the world. A life where I chase landscapes and people and myths and moments and weave them into something alive. Something whole.

A life where I don’t just read fairytales—I write them.

And so, in the stillness between the rain, I remembered.

I remembered why I was created.

To write.

To dream.

To bring magic to the page.

And now, the world knows it too.

—Stephanie

Scarlet Vël, Octavia Butler, Fantasy Novels, and My Irish Awakening

Title: Scarlet Vël, Octavia Butler, Fantasy Novels, and My Irish Awakening

When my Delta flight dipped beneath the clouds on December 31, 2024, and the first sight of Ireland came into view, I understood why it was called the Emerald Isle. Even cloaked in fog, rain, and morning mist, the land below shimmered with a kind of verdant magic I’d never seen before. It was like looking down at a story yet to be written. Dotted emeralds spread across the landscape like some divine hand had sewn jewels into the land. And right then—somewhere between jetlag and a second cup of airplane tea—I saw her.

A woman. A warrior. Dark-skinned. Fiery red hair catching wind like flame. She was strong, beautiful, wild. She didn’t have a name yet, didn’t have a story—not fully—but she had presence. And Ireland was her home.

This is how Scarlet Vël began.

I’ve always loved fantasy. Sci-fi. Anything with wonder and otherworldliness that let me leave the reality I’d been handed. Growing up as a Black girl in the South, reading Octavia Butler, C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, and Frank Herbert wasn’t just entertainment. It was sanctuary. It was possibility. It was someone whispering, "Yes, you can imagine another world, and yes, you can create it too."

Octavia Butler, especially, shaped me. This author spoke to something primal in me—the longing to be seen, to be powerful, to survive despite the odds. Wild Seed tore me open and stitched me back up again. Anyanwu didn’t just change form—she transformed pain into purpose. I wanted that kind of power in my writing. I wanted characters like that. Characters who were overlooked, unseen, dismissed—but who went on to do unimaginable things. And when I landed in Ireland, I knew this land could be the birthplace of a world like that.

It was raining when I got to Dublin. 8 a.m., gray skies, and the air thick with that cold Irish dampness that wraps itself around your bones. But baby, that mist made everything glow. The taxi ride into the city felt like entering a myth. Streets curved like stories, cobblestones whispered secrets. My hotel was just a few steps from Trinity College, and as soon as I dropped my bags, I was out exploring like Dora with a pen instead of a backpack.

Walking the streets of Dublin, something cracked open in me. Maybe it was the ancient buildings brushing shoulders with modern life. Maybe it was hearing history from Irish voices instead of American textbooks. These weren’t dry facts. These were tales told with sorrow and pride, with tears and laughter, by people whose roots ran deep into the soil—people who had known famine, colonization, grief, and survival. I saw myself in them. In their pride. In their fight. In their fierce tenderness.

And Scarlet—the woman I had seen from the sky—kept returning to me.

In Galway, as I stood on the rocky coast, I imagined her there on horseback, red hair whipping like flame, cloak soaked in sea mist. I saw her cutting through Irish fog and mountain rain, battling her way through silence and invisibility. I didn’t know her full story, but I knew her *spirit*. She was a woman made to be hidden—told to be quiet, to make herself smaller. She was told the world didn’t need her. And like the Irish, she defied that lie. Scarlet Vël became the girl who would not be denied.

The more I traveled through Ireland—took walking tours, wandered through countryside roads, visited castles and ruins and pubs older than the colonized U.S.—the more Scarlet's story took shape. The land was rough and soft. Kind and brutal. Beautiful and dangerous. It was everything she would be.

And then, one January day, I got caught in an Irish snowstorm.

There I was, Black American woman from Atlanta, standing on the edge of a cliff in the Irish mountains, snow flurries biting at my cheeks, wind howling like banshees. My hands were frozen, my phone was dead, and for a moment I truly wondered: Is this it? Would I be that weird headline? Writer Dies in Snow, Wearing Cute Boots but No Survival Gear.

I stared into the white abyss and thought of Scarlet. What would she do in this moment? What would Anyanwu from Wild Seed do? Would she crumble? Would she fall? Or would she take one more step?

Gandalf didn’t give up. Paul Atreides didn’t give up. Aslan didn’t quit. And neither would I.

I walked. I walked cold, scared, breathless—but I walked.

And I made it.

That storm, like so many moments in Ireland, reminded me of the purpose of fantasy—not to escape reality, but to transform it. To see yourself—the version of you you’ve been told is too loud, too Black, too different—as the chosen one. The hero. The legend.

That’s what I want Scarlet Vël to be.

A story about a girl who should have disappeared, but instead carved her name into the world.

That’s what I want my story to be.

Ireland gave me more than just a place to start a novel. It gave me clarity. It gave me connection. It gave me a heroine. The land itself told me, "There’s power in your difference. There’s beauty in your fight. There’s magic in your story."

And so, I write.

Scarlet Vël is still in world-building stages. She's still becoming. But so am I.

And as Robert Frost said, "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by." That has made all the difference.

I chose to walk this unknown path. I left everything familiar behind to find something deeper, something wilder.

And I found it. Right here, in Ireland.

—Stephanie 🌿

A Black American Woman in Dublin: My Irish Redemption Arc

Title: A Black American Woman in Dublin: My Irish Redemption Arc

When I left the United States—Atlanta, Georgia to be exact—I had one goal: travel. Travel hard, travel long, travel joyfully. I wanted to see every country I could. Eat all the pastries. Drink all the teas. Write all the stories. And I wanted to begin this globe-trotting journey in Ireland. Why Ireland? Why not?

Ireland’s one of those places you always hear about in storybooks and fairytales. Rolling green hills. Sheep just... chilling. Accents that make your knees weak. And honestly, I had some unfinished business with the Irish. I needed to find out for myself if the Irish were saints or absolute menaces. And if I could replace a memory I had buried deep beneath years of southern hospitality and sweet tea. So let’s roll the tape back about seven years...

I was going on a first date with a fella—let’s call him Bryan. Bryan invited me to Johnny’s Hideaway, a dimly lit North Atlanta hotspot where folks over 60 go to relive their Studio 54 glory days. Now listen, I had never been to Johnny’s Hideaway, didn’t want to go to Johnny’s Hideaway, and truly never even drove past it unless I was lost. But I figured—eh, why not? Bryan said his friend was having their wedding reception there. Red flag? Yes. But I was bored, so I went.

Bryan was short, stocky, blonde, and a tennis coach from Britain who’d been living in Atlanta a few years. He seemed sweet. So there we were, standing in the freezing cold for nearly an hour because Bryan didn’t want to pay extra to skip the line. Already, I was giving myself mental side-eye. The crowd looked like a Botox convention for doctors and their wives in Forever 21 dresses. I was in my 30s, used to clubs that played Biggie and 2Pac and had people grinding on beat, not sipping cocktails in orthopedic heels.

Finally, we got inside. It was dark. Packed. Michael Jackson bumping through the speakers (a tiny saving grace). Bryan grabbed us drinks, then led us to the roped-off "wedding reception" area. Roped-off is generous—it was more like a piece of yarn loosely strung across a few tables. Still, I didn't want to intrude. Bryan saw his friend (the groom) and bride across the room and left me to sip my drink at the table while he caught up.

And that’s when it happened.

A man. No, a mountain of a man—Irish, white, 6’5, drunk as a skunk—comes up and starts yelling at me. Not Bryan. Me. The only Black woman in the building. Yelling that I didn’t belong there. That I needed to leave. I calmly (but firmly) explained that I was Bryan’s date, he was talking to the groom, we were invited.

This man was not having it.

He got closer. Louder. Drunker. Red-faced and spitting mad. Told me I didn’t belong. That he paid for the damn reception and didn’t want me there. And I swear, if he had said one more thing, I would’ve gone full-on Mortal Kombat on him. I could see the headline: *Black Woman in Club Stabs Racist Irish Father-of-the-Groom in the Dick with Cocktail Straw.*

Thankfully, two younger Irish guys intervened, told him to back off and that I was invited. That made him even angrier. He shouted that he was the groom’s father and didn’t want me there. I braced myself, thinking he was about to drop a hard N-word and catch these hands.

Then the grandfather of the groom, old and fragile but sweet-eyed, shuffled up to me, held my shoulders like a war veteran about to pass on ancient wisdom and said, "Don’t go. Don’t leave. He’s an arsehole. He’s drunk." He pleaded with me not to let his son's ignorance ruin the night. And y’all... I wanted to stay. But the rage bubbling in my chest was volcanic.

I saw Bryan still chatting, oblivious to the chaos. I snapped. I looked sweet Granddad in the eyes and said, "Get the fuck out my way, Grandpa. I’m leaving." Pulled myself free and stormed off like Beyoncé in "Hold Up." Bryan chased after me, horrified, apologetic, and looking like someone had just shot his puppy. I didn’t blame him—it wasn’t his fault—but I was done.

That night stayed with me. For years.

So yeah, when I planned to travel, I needed to know: *Is that who the Irish are? Or was that just one drunk jerk with issues and an overpour?* I needed to find out.

When I finally left Atlanta and flew to Boston to catch my connecting flight to Dublin, drama followed me like a bad ex. The flight was delayed because the pilot was late—probably laid up with his mistress if you ask me. When we landed in Boston, the pilot told everyone to sit down and let the Dublin crew off first because we were this close to missing the connection.

That’s when I heard it again: Irish men yelling. Two of them going at it mid-flight over who should get off first. I thought, *Lord, not again. Is Ireland just a country of angry ginger men who live to ruin my life?* But I was too far in. Ticket was bought. Flight was boarding. I was sweating and waddling after people like I was running the Olympic 40-yard dash in a trench coat.

We made the flight.

And when I got to Ireland?

Everything changed.

The moment I stepped off that plane, Ireland greeted me like a long-lost daughter. Everywhere I went—Dublin, Galway, castles, libraries, pubs—I was met with kindness. People went out of their way to help me. They asked about my writing. They wanted to know my story. One woman offered to walk me across the city just so I wouldn’t get lost.

It wasn’t performative. It was genuine. It was love in action.

Ireland became the place where my writing flowed. Where I felt held. Where I could walk into a space and not shrink. Where I could dream again.

That hateful memory from Johnny’s Hideaway? Gone. Rewritten. Burned to ash.

And wouldn’t you know it? In Ireland, I began crafting Scarlet Vël. A series I am still working out but wouldn’t have even thought about if not for Ireland. The land inspired me. The people reminded me of who I was and who I could be.

Ireland, I forgive you. And thank you—for showing me that grace can grow where rage once lived. That kindness can be louder than hate. And that healing sometimes wears a brogue and hands you a pint of Guinness.

To any Black women wondering if Ireland is worth the visit: it is. And then some.

With warmth, humor, and all the receipts,

Stephanie

P.S. The next time a drunk Irishman wants to fight me at a wedding, he better bring backup. I know my worth now. And I’m not afraid to throw hands... lovingly, of course. 😉

I’ve Always Been a Writer, Bitch

Blog Post 2: I’ve Always Been a Writer, Bitch.

When did I decide I wanted to be a writer?

When did I know?

Easy. Kindergarten.

I was already crafting fantastical stories—not just knights and princesses, but some real Stephen King, dark fantasy, sci-fi crossover energy. I had the imagination of a chaotic genius and the handwriting of a Catholic school prodigy. My teachers said I was gifted, and honey, I believed them. Because they weren’t wrong.

And reading?

Books were my cocaine.

I read like a little literary crackhead. That’s not hyperbole. That’s my truth.

The smell of a book—new or old—still does something to me. Hiding away in a corner, cross-legged, a novel in my lap (and not some baby picture book either, thank you very much)—that was my kind of high. I was the heroine, the protagonist, the sidekick, the villain. I lived in those stories.

When other kids were playing video games, I was deep into novels.

And let’s not even talk about the Scholastic Book Fair or Reading Rainbow. That was my Super Bowl.

I’d beg my parents for money, do chores, gather pennies like I was running a depression-era hustle, just to get books. I remember watching my mama write out that $5 check like it was a check for a car.

“Here, librarian. Now give me my damn books.”

The Babysitters Club. Sweet Valley High. Madeleine L’Engle. Goosebumps. Maya Angelou. Tolkien. Poe. Wordsworth. Toni Morrison. Mary Shelley. Stephen King. William Damn Wordsworth.

Line ’em up. I read ‘em all.

I had a milk crate bookshelf in my room in Alaska (Army brat life), and I’d stack my books like they were Crown Jewels. Pull one out with reverence. Flip the pages like they were sacred scrolls.By the time I was seven, I was reading my mom’s 400-page grown-folk novels—The Thornbirds, A Love Story, books on the Holocaust, world events, ancient civilizations, Civil War dramas, the Wild West… I understood the world before I understood people. But the world didn’t scare me. People did. And books? They saved me from them.

So when people ask me, “When did you know you wanted to be a writer?”

Since I was four. Since the day I could read a book by myself and disappear into someone else’s story.

I wanted to show the beauty of the world, like those writers showed me.

I wanted to let people get lost in something bigger than their pain.

And I still feel that today.

I love the way words can draw out emotion.

How an author can make you feel, see, hear, or rage—just by the rhythm of a sentence.

I love the poetic. I love the ugly. I love the eloquent and the cold-blooded.

I love words. I love books.

This love affair is no longer something I’m hiding or downplaying. It’s not something I’ll brush aside for the sake of a “real job” or anyone else’s comfort.

I’m a writer.

I’m a reader.

If I never become anything else (outside of being a mother), let me be that—until I take my last breath.